


You Can Escape From it Whenever You Choose

by hjbaltimore



Series: The Lernaean Problem [4]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Flashbacks, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Medical Torture, Mindwiping, Pining, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Psychological Torture, Torture, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbaltimore/pseuds/hjbaltimore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Sergeant Barnes, all you need to do to stop the pain is to give yourself to HYDRA. ‘Hail Hydra’. That is all you need to say.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Nearly ten years after the fall, an unorthodox branch of the KGB form the infamous Red Room. Their first project-- to break the sidekick of America's golden boy and create the perfect, loyal Soviet soldier. If only it weren't easier said then done.</p><p> </p><p>From a prompt asking how Hydra broke Bucky before wiping his memories. There is no explicit rape, but there is non-con touching and implied content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was 1953, and for the first time in nearly a decade, he was allowed out of the country. It was no secret he was going to Russia; his American employers (jailers, really) had laughed in his face. If he wanted to risk being captured by the USSR, that was his prerogative; it wasn't technically off limits. They would be sure split up his things evenly among the other SHIELD scientists.

* * *

  
  
There he was, his last subject before Rogers blew up a factory full of hard work. And, apparently, the Captain’s best friend. He never believed in or even cared for Shmidt’s obsession for the occult, but if there was something beyond them out there, they were surely working in his favor. How else would he be so blessed with deliciously satisfying opportunity?  
  
“You kept him in marvelous condition, Karpov. Words cannot express how thankful I am,” said Zola in amazement, walking slow circles around the stiff, unmoving body.  
  
“Yes well, I didn’t actually expect to be sharing the prize, but you made a compelling case. Besides, unlike the rest of the Nazi party, HYDRA has always intrigued me.”  
  
Zola nodded in silent modesty. “How long until he is uh, unfrozen?”  
  
Karpov swept some stray ashes from his cigarette off his lapels. “Hard to say. We’ve only woken him once before. Tried using adrenaline to quicken the process, only to end up with six dead men before getting him under control. It would have been an incredible sight, had it not been so inconveniencing to find replacements.”  
  
He smirked. “Yes, I finally got something right with this one. The treatment, it boosts emotion, yes? The boy had so much pent up frustration, it was easy to turn into anger. It will require rigorous conditioning to direct it, however.”  
  
Karpov gave a cold-blooded grin, focusing his eyes in contempt at the body. “Yes I would imagine so. Let’s head to the observation room shall we Doctor? Even with restraints we don’t want to risk a repeat of last time.”  
  
Zola grabbed some papers and left, while Karpov, taking great strides, bared over the table. The sergeant's lid were just barely cracked, eyes moving wildly like he was in the middle of a dream. He was no scientist, but even he knew the Captain’s sidekick’s days of doing anything like that were long over.

“You do not know me Sergeant Barnes, but I’ve had a grudge against your great American hero friend for some time now. Nothing against you, but the irony is too tempting to pass by."

He stamped out the cigarette on a small ashtray before slipping it back in his pocket and flicking the butt on the floor.

"I only regret I will not be able to see his face when I break you”, he sighed wistfully.

* * *

  
  
It started out simple: beatings, forcing him to stand until his legs gave out; restriction of food, water, and sleep. Isolation. Sometimes Barnes would struggle furiously, hitting and kicking the wall until his knuckles bled and screaming at anyone within earshot. Other times, he wept as silently as possible huddled in the corner of the room.

Zola would quietly watch behind one way mirrors or television monitors they had installed as discretely as the the bulky technology allowed.  
  
One of the younger soldiers, tall and muscular with dirty blond hair and striking grey eyes and a knack for the emerging computer sciences, had quickly become Zola’s favorites. He knew enough English to get by, but never used it in front of Barnes, instead shouting rapid and angry instructions in Russian, punishing him when he didn’t perform quick enough.  
  
One of the resident behavioral psychologists had given those on the Project: Winter Soldier a short lecture on how he should be treated.  
  
“It does not matter what language you use, as long as it is not English or any tongue he is otherwise familiar with. The only exception to this rule is Dr. Zola, for practical reasons as well as to foster dependence. Our research indicates the subject is fluent in English (his mother tongue), French (taught to him by members of the Commandos and the French Resistance), and German (unknown). While useful in the future, for now these serve only to keep the subject anchored to his past life, which must be severed at all costs. Is this clear?”  
  
Little by little, he began picking up some the Russian, which is when it was decided they should begin to use codewords and slang to keep the prisoner on his toes. Or maybe it was just for fun. Zola didn’t care. 

* * *

  
  
After about a month out of cryo, it all stopped having an effect.   
  
“I’m going to get out of here someday. I’ve spent far longer being captured by guys much worse than you, and there’s going to be hell to pay,” he warned with grit teeth.  
  
Karpov laughed. Screw what the psych had said. The kid was getting too cocky for his own good. “You’ll be eating those words someday, Sergeant.”

Karpov blew a puff of smoke into his face. The look of pure venom he got in return was priceless.  
  
“What do you even want? I don’t know anything about Steve’s serum. I’m not a scientist, and he never talked about it, or knew the process himself.”  
  
He thumped in his heavy combat boots around the chair Barnes was strapped to, electrodes pasted in strategic places all over his naked body. Barnes' muscles twitched with every minuscule jolt pumped into his bruised flesh.  
  
“It’s not about that, son. We have more ambitious goals in mind, and you are the perfect candidate. Savor those words: they’re probably going to be the only explanation you’ll get the rest of your life. We wouldn’t want to compromise the experiment.”  
  
Karpov wove his fingers into Barnes’ hair, forcing his head up as much as the straps would allow. He leaned in, ghosting his lips over Barnes’ neck and breathing in deeply with a moan just barely catching the in the back of his throat. The kid looked ready to piss himself, yet at the same time snarled indignantly.  
  
“You get your disgusting hands off me,” Barnes spat.  
  
“Please. I’m not overly fond of used toys,” said Karpov. “But I can enjoy the view.” He looked Barnes up and down, who was now flush from head to toe. He couldn’t say if it was from shame or anger. Maybe both. He smiled.  
  
“It was the Captain wasn't it? Smart, no one better to be caught with. You probably could’ve have fucked each other in front of the president himself and gotten away with it. Rogers was just too valuable.”  
  
Barnes was seething now. “Ain’t none of your goddamn business you ugly creep.”

“Oh Sergeant, you are my business. Everything about you. You know why? Because you’ve already lost.”

* * *

  
  
“What is your name.”  
  
“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 325570-” He didn’t scream so much as groan in agony. It was deeply unsatisfying to the man pressing the buttons. The man asking the questions seemed more bored than anything.  
  
“Where were you born.”  
  
“Sergeant Jam-”  
  
“What were your parent’s names.”  
  
“Ser-”  
  
The man at the controls let the jolt go on a few seconds longer than necessary, staring down Bucky straight in the eye as he casually flicked the switch off.  
  
“Alright, thank you gentlemen, you are done for now,” came an eerily familiar voice over the wall speaker.   
The one man rolled his eyes and walked out. The one who’d been at the controls checked the straps that held him to the gurney, smiling with a with a kind of predatory gaze that sent the hairs on Bucky's neck standing up. After a few minutes, the door groaned open. Bucky struggled to see the newest tormentor. It was hard to see anything lying flat.  
  
“Sergeant Barnes. It’s good to see you once again in my care.”  
  
Bucky leaned back in exhaustion. “Zola.”  
  
“ _Dr._  Zola. When Red Skull felt forced to destroy the factory, I thought I was going to lose my best subject. Turns out you were saved for me. The fates have certainly been on my side.”  
  
He motioned to the assistant to unstrap him. Bucky sat up, rubbing the stump where his lower left arm used to be. Bucky wanted to spit in his face, beat him to a bloody pulp. Last time he did that, he was beaten within an inch of his life, left on his cold cell floor to let whatever crude drugs that pumped through his veins do all the healing, though it was almost more painful to resist than to get beat again.  
  
In the end, it didn’t matter, because the assistant with the especially cruel and angular face slapped him and spat something vulgar at him in Russian. Something about being a gay whore. They really needed new insults.  
  
“Sergeant Barnes, all you need to do to stop the pain is to give yourself to HYDRA. ‘Hail Hydra’. That is all you need to say.”  
  
Was this a trick? He wouldn’t mean it, and Zola knew that. He’d probably been watching from afar this whole time. They almost gotten him earlier, but that wasn't going to happen again. If he couldn’t break out, all he had to do was wait for Steve to break in. He won't go down that easy.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hm.” Zola made a note on his clipboard. “It does not matter, I don’t need it now. You will say it eventually. That is the fate that has been decided for you. There is no way to avoid it.”

  
“Oh really?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He held his arm out wide, the left raising itself sympathetically in unison. “What else could you possibly do to me? Besides, I’m not sticking around. My team is going to find you eventually.”  
  
“Time is a powerful factor Mr. Barnes. Though I am not infinitely patient, so why don’t we speed it up a little?”

* * *

 

  
They made him watch it.  
  
Hours and hours of footage, news reports, reenactments, eulogies, radio broadcasts, paper articles… it seemed never ending and frankly they might have been repeating some of it. For a while they held his head in a metal contraption to make it face forward, and small hooks to keep his eyelids open. It didn’t take long before he sat silent and dead eyed gazing at the screen in his cell.  
  
After the initial shock had blown over, they started rolling the unedited programs. The ones with the ever elevating time stamps. Up to 1950. He’d initially hope, prayed this was something they’d made up to mess with him, that they thought they'd finally found his breaking point and decided to milk it with cheap fake footage. Every second that passed by dashed that dream a little more, and then some. He wanted to disappear, shatter and scatter himself in the wind.

  
Eventually (he didn’t know how long), Zola returned to his cell, the awful assistant from before tottering behind him with a cart full of gleaming instruments and the gleeful anticipation of an excited child.   
  
“Welcome to the year 1954, Mr. Barnes. My condolences on your friend, the Captain. I’ve been told the two of you were  _very_  close.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here from the HTPM, welcome! You now know my secret identity. Also, I changed a bunch of minor stuff and fixed all the spelling errors, i hope


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's resolve starts to chip away.

He stopped fighting back. Actively, anyway.  
  
Bucky spent his time sitting limp as rag doll against the wall of his cell. Just for kicks, they started leaving the door not only unlocked, but wide open as well. He couldn't even muster the energy to be angry at the mockery. Most days ended with closing the bars himself, returning to the pile of old rags and hay that served as a bed, hoping no one would bother to open it again.  
  
He stopped eating (to make things more difficult for them or himself, he wasn't even sure), so they took to shoving a tube down his throat and spilling a nauseating slurry of half a dozen eggs and an unidentifiable green-brown paste each day, and washing it down with a quart of water. He didn’t bother to throw it up. Couldn't _be_ bothered to. He wasn't eager for a repeat of what happened last time, not to mention when the promise of a week long “special diet” in a force feeding chair should the food end up anywhere but his own stomach.  
  
He wasn't eager to find out exactly what that entailed.  
  
Bucky had picked more than enough Russian to know that, when he was shoved in front of a mirror and made to to study his filthy and emaciated body, that they called him and ugly. Inhuman. Bathing was a privilege for obedient and cooperative soldiers, not insubordinate prisoners. He was inclined to agree, and didn’t notice when he said as much out loud. He could hear Zola scratching down another note in his chart.

His ribs had begun to show. His hair, though long and matted, stopped growing and even began to fall out

* * *

The guard dropped the tray with a loud metallic clatter that reverberated off the walls.

Bucky lifted his head warily. "What is this?" he asked in stiff Russian.

"Enticement."

Boiled potatoes, a slab of beef, a dense hunk of bread that resembled a rock, and dull pannikin of watery gravy. Bucky's mouth immediately began to water. He looked up and scrutinized the man with sunken eyes. "Why?"

He spit near Bucky's feet. "That's better than what most of us get out here. And we do actual  _work_ , unlike you. I'd be more grateful and stop asking questions."

The guard walked out, slamming the bars behind him in a huff.

Bucky scrambled over to the tray and examined each bit of food. None of it smelled or looked funny. It was suspiciously normal looking. He turned to the one camera they hadn't tried to hide, wondering just what kind of torture this was suppose to be a part of now. If it was just to get him to eat on his own again, it was working. He wolfed down each bite.

The meals starting coming four times a day. Eventually one of the guards let it slip they were trying to make him gain back weight and then some, for whatever reason. He tried restarting his hunger strike, but it was short lived. They’d resorted to using nose tubes that broke the cartilage and sent blood flooding over his chin each time. Four times a day would have been unbearable, and resistance seemed so unappealing when warm bread and meat was present.

* * *

 

His wrist and shoulders were strapped a weight machine.  
  
The soldier with the angular face (his least favorite out of them all, he decided) held a cattle prod admonishingly to Bucky’s thigh if he slowed or tried to stop.   
  
Bucky now knew what the bulking up was for, just not what the end result could possibly be. More muscle would only make it more difficult to hold him down. He tried not to think too hard about it, and spent his now limited “free time” playing out some of his favorite memories, not letting himself forget a single detail. His favorites were of Steve. Who else was going to the remember the idiot? The rest of the world only knew him as Captain America.  
  
_Oh, the Commandos. And Carter and Stark I guess. I keep forgetting about them._  
  
In a moment of horror, Bucky realized he couldn’t remember what any of them looked like. All he saw were dull uniforms, and blurred faces, and Steve smiling bright as the sun in the middle of all them.  


* * *

  
  
Zola would be gone for weeks at a time, always to return with a shiny new instrument courtesy of the United States government.   
  
“It seems I have become indispensable to them, Vasily. They don’t even bother asking where I go anymore. They simply pray I will come back.”  
  
“Excellent! How goes the eh,” Karpov made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “recruitment?”  
  
“The numbers have doubled since I was last here. There are many who have begun to seek me out. And you?”  
  
“Having trouble getting support from the KGB. They are too focused on their own idiot goals to see the big picture, how valuable of an asset the Red Room will become. But never mind that, what did souvenir did you bring back this time?”  
  
The technicians were still piecing it together, bolt by bolt. It looked like a medical chair with a switchboard wired into it. Zola presented it with a dramatic hand gesture.  
  
Karpov looked unimpressed. “It’s an ECT.”  
  
“It is an ECT in the sense that a horse and buggy are an airplane. My designs reduce the risk of anterograde amnesia while targeting specific points of the brain for targeted retrograde memory loss. Suggestibility is also an unintended but nonetheless welcome side effect that is not provided by an ECT. What you are looking at is the future of what we will use to convert those who are stubbornly muddled by delusions of chaos as an acceptable substitute for safety and order. Not a mere tool for psychological quackery.”  
  
“I don’t give two shits, I just want loyal super soldiers. Can it get me that?” Karpov grunted.  
  
Zola gave a mildly disgusted smile. “We will need extensive trials on some ‘volunteers’ first to perfect it, but I anticipate it will be ready for the subject in two to three years time.”  
  
“Are you an idiot? I don’t have that long, I need results now!”  
  
“Unless you can build a dozen or so more of these and provide over a hundred different disposable test subjects, you are going to have to be patient. Thankfully, we already have something else to occupy the sergeant while we wait.”

* * *

  
  
“Dr. Zola tells me he saw Agent Carter yesterday, Mr. Barnes. She’s doing very well. Gotten married, and has received a medal for her work.  _You_  have a lovely empty casket buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Right next to Captain Roge-”  
  
“I hate them,” he said calmly in limited Russian.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“The Commandos. I hate them. I hate Peggy Carter. I hate Howard Stark. I hate my parents. I hate Colonel Phillips. They- all of them, they let this happen to me.”   
  
Barnes said it without a hint of anger, or taking his eyes off the spot on the ceiling he’d been focused on for an hour now. It wasn't out of spite; it was a fact. If Karpov been about twenty years younger, he’d be doing backflips.  
  
“What about Captain Rogers?” Karpov asked, grinning ear to ear.  
  
He was silent, still unmoving. Karpov took a puff of his cigar and blew it directly into Barnes’ face. Not even a flinch. He couldn't help but feel disappointed that it didn't affect Barnes the way it used to, but he laughed none the less.  
  
“Ha! I’ll let you keep that one for now boy. Just remember, there’s no point in loyalty to a dead man.”  
  
“There’s no point in loyalty to a dead man,” Barnes agreed in a broken, dream-like way.  
  
“What about to the America?"  
  
Finding the rights words looked physically painful. “I wouldn’t have been drafted in the war if the government hadn’t decided to get us involved. I could have stayed home. Lived a normal life. Steve would’ve stayed normal. I could have kept him all to myself. He’d still be alive."  
  
Karpov nodded.   
  
“But I am still alive. No matter how much I hate them, I hate you pricks more. You can’t take that from me.” Small tears dribbled from his eyes. “You won’t. You’ll have to kill me.”  
  
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Karpov shrugged nonchalantly.  
  
A technician came over and shot a thin green chemical into his arm, making everything feel sluggish and lapsed. Suddenly the voices of those piling into the room didn't quite match up. Colors swirled sickeningly, and he could feel his eyes rolling to the back of his head, and what little was left to so turned to tunnel vision.

The lid closed, and through the already fogged over glass, Bucky saw one last puff of cigar smoke before everything drifted away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gets a new arm.

It was 1959, and Barnes had cumulatively spent the grand total of about a week unfrozen and mostly conscious. Whoever was present for the thawing was always sure to tell him that the Red Room had started other projects, more important than him, while he wasted time in his “vanity case”, as one of them put it. Out of pure pent up frustration he tried to argue the freezing was not voluntary. The stitches didn’t come out until three defrosting later.  
  
“Soon, we may decide we don't even need you. Toss you in the garbage to die while you sleep.”  
  
No response.   
  
Karpov stamped out the cigar butt on Barnes’ chest. It was fascinating to watch with how quickly it healed. Within minutes. Sometimes he’d do it in more sensitive areas just to see if anything changed, besides the amount of squirming. He never had to go out of his way, as the Soldier ( _You need to stop calling the subject by it’s old name. This is why we’ve begun using children; the lack of identity makes for more malleable personality. This is crucial, people! We should have been doing this from the start!_ ) was rarely fully clothed, if at all.   
  
“I would start being a little more obedient, Soldier. Now that we have improved upon Zola’s original compound, we can easily find a replacement for you. Is that what you want?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’m not bluffing, you know. Well, maybe about the throwing you away. Maybe instead of a valuable asset working to change the world, you could be our propaganda slut. Imagine, the once revered James Barnes, right hand man to Captain America himself, begging like whore to take the enemy's cock. We’ll make movies out of them and sell it the highest bidders. Is that what you want?”  
  
Barnes did what he didn’t even think was possible at this point, and spit in his fucking eye. He didn’t feel himself launching at the pathetic excuse for a man. Not even a man,  _a thing_. A thing that had the audacity to pretend it was equal to him.  _Him._  A goddamn general of the Russian military.   
  
Karpov finally let go of the bruised and purpling neck as the scientists that had been buzzing around pulled him off, gently scolding him not wreck expensive equipment like that. Disciplinary measures needed to be an non-invasive as possible to avoid long term damage. They made him leave the room.   
  
Barnes was already unconscious, lying on the examination table.

* * *

  
  
“Sergeant Barnes.”  
  
 _Who? Oh, that’s me. Right. Sergeant James Barnes, 325… what was the rest?_  
  
He bent his head, heavy and lethargic, in an attempt to look around. The world was faded at the edges, like looking through frosted glass. He was strapped down again, though much lighter than usual. The restraints were thin and just a little bit loose.   
  
“I thought it would be best if you were awake for this part. Where you leave humanity behind.”  
  
Bucky looked over to see a number of surgeons and technicians standing around him, mouthless with darkened eyes from the floodlights. Numerous glinting tools on carts surrounded the bed, one of which contained an electric bone saw. The one doctor picked it up and heading for his left-  
  
“No. No no no… please,” the pleaded, head swimming.  
  
“It will not hurt. You simply need to see.”  
  
“What are you doing,” he quivered.  
  
Zola stepped to the side and motioned to a lifeless heap, like something out of Frankenstein. A bulky, metal arm with wires and tubes sticking every which way.  
  
“You will be the new fist of HYDRA. Think of it as gift, marking you as one of our own.”  
  
“No. No please, you can’t…”  
  
“I can. I’ve been doing it since the moment you entered the compound in 1943. The procedure has already started. This is simply the point of no return.”

* * *

  
  
 _This is who you are now. You are the Winter Soldier, and you **will**  comply._  
  
He had tried taking it off. It was their own fault, with the flimsy cuffs. Or maybe they were just that confident they had broken him. It was blissfully satisfying regardless.   
  
With the last attachment in, and confirming the none of the parts would rip themselves off during use, Bucky aimed for the nearest person. A thin balding man in a labcoat and round glasses. His neck snapped easily enough, clean and quick. He looked like a taller Zola, who had already fled the room.   
  
The other doctors scrambled to either get out of his way or to find a tranquilizing drug. One was screaming about how how he shouldn’t even be able to move with the paralytic still in his system. He killed him next.  
  
Bucky took his flesh hand and pried at the seam where skin and metal met. The still healing shoulder oozed thick, dark blood, but refused to budge further.  
  
What happened in between then and now was a mystery. He awoke and, having been tossed on the floor, peeled his sweat soaked body off ground with some difficulty, his head still spinning and throwing off his balence. Three wall sized mirrors had been placed in his cell so that the only free wall was the one with the observational two way mirror. It was impossible to not look at himself. The arm was hideous, and not to mention heavy. The fingers had to have been twice as thick as his organic ones, moving stiffly and slowly.  
  
He wanted to smash the mirrors, stopping himself only by imagining the consequences. Discipline was used for the most mundane and seemingly random of infractions, let alone breaking a whole mirror. The constant pain was becoming exhausting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The freshly appointed Winter Soldier gets used to his new arm, and reaches a new breaking point.

They left him in the room for hours.  
  
Eventually, Bucky had nothing left to do but to study the new equipment weighing him down which, he had no doubt, was the entire point. He took a deep breath and looked,  _really_  looked. The skin was red and blotchy around the metal with the promise of shiny pink scars later on. But the worst part was “art” on it; the HYDRA insignia inside of a red soviet star was printed on the bicep. He had essentially been branded. A piece of HYDRA cattle. He felt nauseated.  
  
Bucky wrapped his legs around the thing and tried to yank it off, and it held fast. He scraped it along the floor hoping to at least rub off the paint. Nothing.  
  
Bucky felt cold and wet. Not sweaty cold, but like rain was dripping down-  
  
 _Oh, I’m crying..._  
  
Sobbing was more like it. Bucky hadn’t worn clothes in years, but this was the first time he really missed having them. The cell was drafty and made of stone. His “bed” had been swept away a long time ago. He couldn’t keep up the stoic face anymore.   
  
Bucky laid down on the ground and fell asleep thinking of all the things he’d be willing to do for a blanket right now.

* * *

  
“Hail Hydra.”

Zola nearly dropped his goddamn clipboard. Did Barnes just…?  
  
“Hail Hydra. Hail fucking Hydra. It’s what you wanted isn’t it?” he croaked. “Hail Hydra, hail Mother Russia. Hail whatever you want. I’ll do it. I give up.”  
  
He was  _hoping_ , but certainly didn’t expect it to  _work._ At least, not yet. He'd spent the entire plane ride over thinking up new persuasion tactics.  
  
“Incredible progress, Soldier. I had no idea you would break so fast,” he laughed gleefully. “Come. Follow me.”  
  
He yanked off the restraints that kept Barnes tethered to the weight machine. The workout regimen had greatly increased, with many of his advisors insisting they needed the subject to be in shape so that the next time he was unfrozen they could begin the “real work”, as they called it.  
  
Barnes limped after him, exhausted and ready to fall into a heap on the ground. Just to savor the victory for himself a little longer, he led them along on the long route to the council room.  
  
The doors were shut, and one of the guards make a weak attempt at asking them to not intrude. Zola brushed the man aside, yanking Barnes by his hair into following.  
  
“Sorry to interrupt  _Herren_ ,” he interrupted with a smug smile.  
  
“Damn it, Zola, I’m in the middle of something,” Karpov growled. The other men around the table looked curious, but just as irritated nonetheless.  
  
“You’ll want to hear this.” He threw Barnes to the ground, who choked and coughed as his knees buckled against the cold tiles. “Go on. Repeat for the General what you said to me.”  
  
He almost thought he was going to chicken out until he looked up and stuttered out a terrified “H-hail Hydra.”  
  
Karpov’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “That is all well and good Soldier, but I am not technically speaking, HYDRA. How will you show your loyalty to _me_?”  
  
“Please. Please, hail Russia. Hail Stalin. KGB. Whatever you want,” he croaked.  
  
Karpov glanced to the others around him, most of whom looked suitably impressed while the rest had either skeptical or nonplussed reactions. Karpov looked back to the heap in front of him.  
  
“Come here.”  
  
Barnes struggled to stand up, when Karpov extended his boot and shoved him back down.   
  
“On your hands and knees, like a good, loyal dog. Display your commitment.”  
  
Barnes looked ready to either cry or kill as his hand curled into fists (the metal one only barely moving), but nonetheless dragged the body towards him. He refused to make eye contact, but they could work on that later.  
  
“Kiss the boot of your master.”  
  
Blood dribbled down the corner of Barnes’ mouth from where he was biting his lip. He lowered his head, and pecked to toe of the black leather before him.  
  
Karpov felt a twitch of excitement in his gut.  _If only I didn’t have to finish this right now. But alas…_  
  
“Very good Soldier.You’ll be of use to us yet. But for now, get out of my sight. In case you have not noticed, I am in the middle of an important meeting. How dare you interrupt my colleagues and I?”  
  
He used the hand with his ring and slapped that pretty face with an audible  _smack!_  that echoed painfully through the whole room. A few people behind him chuckled at the display.  
  
Barnes crawled back out through the door, not daring to stand again until he and Zola had long passed the threshold.  
  


* * *

  
Hundreds upon thousands of rounds of ammunition, Bucky’s fingers bled from gripping the handles of the guns, dozens of them. They said he needed to be proficient in all of them, always accurate enough to kill, no matter the conditions or circumstances.   
  
It took only a few months to master it all.  
  
Bucky could help but feel a perverse sense of pride in it. Maybe it was because he’d fighting all his life. From the moment he was drafted into the war, his knack for guns and new languages had him moving up the ranks. Everything else that came with it seemed to flow naturally. They’d make him shoot PoW’s, disposable test subjects for some unknown experiments being worked on elsewhere in the compound. He had resisted at first, until threatened with what would happen if he refused. Suddenly, it became much harder to empathize with the targets. Even so, the first kill (some middle aged guy, veteran by the looks of it), left his hands shaking, and Bucky emptied his stomach five minutes later.   
  
But Bucky almost began to enjoy the training, as it was the only time they encouraged his aggression. He pretended each target was one of his captors, and it felt  _good._  
  
Only when they began hand to hand combat and close range weapons that problems became apparent. Steve and… whoever else he used to work with did more of the close combat.   
  
“Come on, gunsel. Too sore to land a blow? They should have thrown you away years ag-”  
  
Bucky caught him off guard, slammed his left arm into the man’s skull, smashing aimlessly until the blood was too thick to see what he was hitting. Then, all the sudden, there was a grotesque  _snap!_  and white hot pain rippled over his upper chest. He wanted,  _needed_  to keep going but his body betrayed him, and he fell curled into a ball as the metal hand dug grooves into the concrete.  
  
“Shit. It finally happened,” said one of the technicians now hovering over him, not sounding overly concerned.  
  
“Whaddya think; collar bone or scapula?”  
  
“Honestly? Both.”  
  
“Just to be safe, I think we should anchor it all the way down to the ribs. Maybe lower. I’ll be surprised if the manubrium isn’t cracked as well.”  
  
“I’m just amazed it lasted this long. I was beginning to think maybe it was stable the way it was.”  
  
The dead trainer was kicked to side with only a look of disgust at the blood on the ground as acknowledgment to his condition. Bucky was lifted onto a stretcher with possibly the most gentle touches he had ever received from his captors.  
  
Even the slightest movement sent shockwaves through his body. They must have gotten tired of the noises he was making, because in another unusually kind gesture, someone jabbed him with just enough anesthetic to take the edge off before shoving a few painkillers in his mouth dry.  
  
“You! Tell the cryo team to cancel Tuesday’s freezing. You, tell the surgery to begin prepping. This one’s going to be a doozy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, "gunsel" does not mean "gunslinger". I have no idea how 1950's era Soviet soldiers would have picked up 1920's American slang, so just roll with it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad touch warning #1

“Hey Buck.”  
  
He woke with a start, like he’d just been falling. He thought he remembered learning about why that happened in school once, but couldn’t recall ever actually attending any place.  
  
Bucky looked up, saw Steve gazing back down on him with that stupid goofy smile of his, fingers running softly through his hair.  
  
“Did I fall asleep in your lap again?” he mumbled. “You gotta stop letting me do that, people are gonna see.”  
  
Steve frowned, furrowed his brow and looked around. “Who’s going to see?”  
  
Bucky sat up and scanned the area. They were near a burnt out old church. Most of it was still there, but half the roof was missing, and vibrant green vines desperately latched onto the wood grasping towards sunlight. Distant blue mountains surrounded them; it looked like something out of a nature book or travel brochure. He stood up so fast it made his head swim, and Steve just continued with his perplexed stare. He looked through the shutterless, glassless window just above where Steve was sitting against. The inside was worse than out. Dark green moss and neon stems and rainbow fungus and small bugs eating away at the old wooden pews filled the place while light streamed in from the bits where the roof was missing. The only word that truly encompassed it all was ‘damp’.  
  
“Where is everyone?”  
  
“Everyone who?”  
  
“You know… people.”  
  
Steve shrugged before latching onto a corner of his jacket. The way he tugged was purposefully childlike, with wide eyes and a pouty lip he urged Bucky back down in his lap. He propped his head up on Steve’s knee, who began petting his hair. It wasn't to demean or belittle him; it was tender and caring. Intermittently, Steve would hunch over and kiss the crown of his head and murmur unintelligible praises in his ear.  
  
There was only one phrase he could really make out amongst the jumble sweet incomprehension.  
  
“I love you. Miss you so bad.”  
  
Or maybe it was him saying it. He was clutching at Steve so neither could disappear, parroting the words like he might forget them.  
  
Steve pulled Bucky’s head into his chest, deeper and deeper to where his oxygen was being cut off.  
  
“Steve. Steve, I can’t br-”  
  
“Shh. Just…”  
  
 _”Wake up!”_  
  
A harsh jab in his side sent him bolting upright, heart monitors beeping away urgently. There was a tube being pulled from his nose as his lungs gulped desperately for air.  
  
“Goddamn it Turgenov. I told you to wait until we got the damn feeder out. He acts unpredictably when you pull shit like that.”  
  
He shrugged. “You were taking too long. Besides, it’s what the cuffs are for.”  
  
Bucky was pushed back down on the bed. A nurse injected something into the IV,and immediately he felt lethargic. The world swayed and voices became muted. He tried to remember where he was. His right arm was once again just barely tethered down, whereas the left was anchored with heavy metal cuffs. He tried to move it, with no response.  
  
It was like trying to listen to a conversation under water.  
  
“It’s an incredible piece of work,” marveled Turgenov. He was heavy set blond man with a bowl cut, a squashed nose, and a ruddy complexion that all in all gave off the appearance of bipedal pig.   
  
“Dr. Zola is an incredible man; it would have been impossible without his work. Hypnopædia, deprogramming, preservation, training… basically we’ve managed to fit years of progress into a man that, as you can tell, has hardly aged fourteen months since 1945.” The surgeon was faceless, much like the rest of the people on the compound. Bucky looked and no longer saw individual faces, but blurry, scratched out eye sockets with gleaming teeth on wicked smiles. Very few stood out, and those that did were usually the worst of all.   
  
“And the KGB still likes to pretend it and HYDRA are enemies. I almost want to tell them what they’ve been funding all these years. The war is over. Petty differences need to be put aside.”  
  
“On the contrary, Agent Turgenov. The only war that really matters has yet to be won,” she said, turning to Bucky, “And this is what will win it for us.”  
She tapped on his sore, stitched up chest. It looked like he’d been vivisected and sewn back up. Bile rose in his throat.  
  
“We’ve replaced nearly every rib and the shoulder on the left side with a metal compound to anchor the arm to his body so it won’t crack the bones and risk internal bleeding.”  
  
 _They did **what?**_  
  
“It makes the whole thing harder to remove, but we have prototype designs for a detachable arm that keeps metal socket in place so it can just pop in and out for repairs. Putting it on will be painless, but taking it off…”  
  
“Yes, I’d heard you were having problems with it trying to take the equipment off.”  
  
“The pain will be excruciating if it is attempted without the right know-how. Once the psychological conditioning is complete, you will be looking at the most loyal soldier in the history of mankind.”

* * *

  
“What is two plus two?”  
  
“Five.”  
  
“No, today it is three,”  _Zap_ , “What is two plus two?”  
  
“Three.”  
  
“Good. Now, what is the ‘true’ answer to two plus two?”  
  
Bucky closed his eyes and fought back a sigh. “Whatever HYDRA commands it to be.”  
  
“That is correct.”  
  
They had been at it for hours, days maybe. Time had so little value to him lately. There always seemed to be an over abundance of it. From the very beginning he tried to play along, give whatever answer they ordered him too. But now it was expected for him to anticipate the answers they wanted. It was nearly impossible to keep up, and Bucky started to weep involuntarily.  
  
The technician running the shock box with the nasty smile (did he look familiar?) claimed to take pity.   
  
“There there. This is a necessary step in order to attune you to the right way of thinking. We’re helping.”  
  
“You’re helping,” he trembled in agreement as the man swept his thumb over Bucky’s lower lip.  
  
He cupped Bucky’s groin, uncovered as usual. Most of the time he forgot he was naked, unless they forced him to stand outside in the snow. The man rolled his balls between his gloved fingers, already aroused himself and pressing his erection against Bucky’s thigh.   
  
Bucky didn't know it was even possible to get any softer than “utterly unaroused and limp”, but something deep in his soul told him he got there. After a few minutes the man got frustrated at the lack of progress he was making.  
  
“You think you’re better than me?” he grabbed Bucky by the throat hard enough to bruise, but not quite enough to cut off air. “That you can parade around here like a woman and have me falling to my knees? It’s not going to work.”  
  
Someone, something in the back of him mind whispered  _you can’t let this guy talk about gals like that Buck! Show him what for._  
  
He didn’t respond. How could he? It would only disappoint the voice. He didn’t fight anymore. Couldn't.  
  
The man let go with a sneer, and flicked several control switches at once without even asking another question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if any of this seems too much like Brave New World or 1984 it's because I am dystopia-loving garbage
> 
> "good artists copy, great artists steal" and all that


	6. Chapter 6

It was probably the most horrifying thing he’d ever seen, and he’d seen kids not much younger than himself blown up by bombs ten feet from his face.  
  
“Go on. Move. This is what you wanted isn’t it?”  
  
 _No._  
  
“We have been working on this for years. Hundreds have sacrificed themselves to test it, and you dare to resist?”  
  
Bucky pursed his lips. There were never any “right” answers, only things he was ordered to say and those he was not. Anything else was worthy of punishment, it was generally just a question of how delayed it would be. If he said yes, they would use it against him if he resisted again.  _You wanted this, remember?_  If he said no, they’d cut stripes in his skin with a whip and quite literally rub salt in the wounds. They often threatened to shatter his kneecaps, but never did. It would probably interfere with his training, he guessed.  
  
In the end it took eight personnel to hold him down. It wasn't like he didn’t know what the thing did, they had flat out told him. He wasn't broken yet. Not yet.  _Not yet._  
  
It was all thrashing and gnarled teeth, spitting in eyes and tearing as much skin as he could get his hands on. If their “branding” was good for anything, it was this. Fighting faster and stronger than the right could ever be. Thank his captors could ever be. Only once the vices had curled securely over each limb and a large rubber block wedged between his teeth did Bucky find himself truly resigned to his fate.  
  
Maybe it won't be so bad. Not like he’ll remember forgetting anyway, right? Maybe this is  _better_. Because proves that for all their druggings, beatings, insults, electrocution, ripping his guts open over and over, they still couldn’t break him. Not completely. And now, they never will. They have to resort to making him a robot without memories.  
  
Bucky laughed. Or tried to. The bite block made him choke and spit and it nearly fell out. Someone shoved it back in and duct taped his mouth.  
  
“Three… two… one… now.”  
  
It wasn't so much painful as it was  _excruciating_. Every bone was on fire, every spine segment threatening to snap the body in half. His fingers twitched while his wrist bruised itself against the constraint. He caught only a quick glimpse before his eyes started rolling back; a scene straight from a horror film as nodding and approving men in white coats or military uniforms watched off to the side.  
  
 _This is it. This is how I’m going to die._  
  
And in an instant it was over. For a second he almost questioned whether it had even happened, until the world reoriented itself and a wave of nausea hit him. One of the braver techs jogged over with a bucket in anticipation, and Bucky emptied his stomach before falling back against the headrest exhausted. His eyelids fluttered shut, only to be woken up a minute (seconds?) later with a tub full of cold, grey tinted water. He jerked up and sputtered.  
  
“Hey! You’re going to ruin the equipment!”  
  
“I thought it was waterproof?”  
  
“Not him, the chair, dumbass! Go soak up this mess.”  
  
“Yessir…”  
  
He was asked questions-  
  
 _How do you feel?_  
  
Is any part of you numb?  
  
Can you move your left arm?  
  
How hungry are you?  
  
Does your head hurt?  
  
Do you know where you are?  
  
What year is it?  
  
-and he managed to spit out an answer to every one, even if they made no sense. Of course he didn’t know what year it was. They’d only ever told him once or twice for shock value. Who knows if that was the truth. But he did notice how those around him aged with every defrosting. Even so, it was kind of nice. It almost felt like having real doctors that cared for his wellbeing.   
  
Over all, Bucky didn’t feel much different. He definitely wasn't a blank slate. What was the purpose?  
  


* * *

  
  
Bucky sat square in the center of his cell, the same spot he’d quite literally been thrown at hours ago. He had clothes now though, for some reason, which was a welcome surprise. He couldn’t recall anyone around the compound wearing anything remotely close to it (mostly just black tactical suits with the occasional hint of green and yellow, or else military or civilian clothing). Maybe it was some kind of new special prisoner outfit. Maybe they just got sick of looking at his ugly scarred and bruise mottled skin. Maybe it was his new killing outfit. They always seemed to be bragging about how he would soon be out in the field as their new attack dog.  
  
 _Why are they always using dog and gay prostitute as insults? Feel like I outta list off new insults for them just so I don’t get bored… God, who am I, Cyrano or something?_ He laughed bitterly, quietly to himself. He could hear the sound of one of the “hidden” cameras whirring, readjusting it’s angle.  
  
Whatever the reason, Bucky thanked God for small comforts and pulled the garments tighter around him. It was the warmest he could remember feeling in a long time. A navy blue peacoat made from durable fabric and grey-brown cargo pants with matching leather boots; he decided his captors would have to cut them off if they ever wanted them back, because there was no way he would let go otherwise.  
  
Bucky pulled his legs to his chest, and it almost felt safe.


	7. Chapter 7

Things started to change.  
  
“I’ll make you a deal, Soldier,” said one of Zola’s assistants. “Give me those rags we threw on you, and I’ll give you these in exchange.”  
  
He held a pile of three different outfits. They were bland, but more practical than the coat. Plus there were socks, and underwear too. He cautiously began to strip, much to the delight of the guards on either side of the cell door. Bucky ignored the snickering. He stopped blushing for that shit ages ago.  
  
He stopped suddenly, glaring at the assistant. “Why? What’s so special about these clothes?”  
  
“If you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be back talking me anyway,  _suka_.” He gripped the black crop hanging off his belt. Bucky finished undressing and folded them neatly, handing them off with his gaze turned away.

* * *

 

  
A day later they installed a cot, just big enough for him to curl up on. Pristine and sturdy. Bucky nearly cried.

* * *

  
  
Food came even more often, but always in the same way: a thick grey-green sludge that tasted like liquefied cardboard. No more wasting real food on him, after all, now that the labs had come up with something better. But it wasn't raw eggs down his nostrils anymore either, so he considered that a plus too. The result was gaining even more weight. Mostly muscle, now that he was being fed “properly”, but even a healthy layer of fat as well. He had to have been well over 200 lbs at this point. He wonder if this is- was how Steve used to feel in the early days of his freak transformation.  
  
The only downside was that in return, they started injecting him with more rounds of drugs. Liquids that turned to ice in his veins. Pills that tore up the lining of his throat that ended with coughing up blood all over the technicians boots. They kicked him in the teeth for that (it didn’t matter, he always healed by morning).   
  
Bucky imagined himself back in the HYDRA factory, dying of fucking pneumonia and forced into slave labor while feeling like he could keel over at any minute. He could barely imagine Dugan as anything other than a shadowy brick with a stupid bowler hat slapped on it, but he could still remember his voice, somehow. He and Gabe the other not-yet Commandos having his back, even as he was dragged off sweating like an animal for slaughter to Zola they shouted at the guards to take someone else. Someone who had a fighting chance because damn it, it just wasn't fair. Bucky missed those days.  
  
Strapped to the table, it was nearly the same, except for the quantity of drugs pumped into his system. There was a lot less now, but the effects felt stronger. For about a week Bucky healed so fast he could physically feel the skin knitting itself back together. They sliced deep grooves away from any major arteries to test it. While Zola and his goons seemed happy at first, Bucky began feeling restless. Angry. Violent.   
  
Time had repeated itself, and this time there was no one left to save him.  
  
He snapped the buckles off and tore at the lesions to keep them open. When the doctors came near him he ripped their jaws off, the only exception being Zola. Bucky only managed to grasp at his ankle before he ran out of the room and sealed the door.  
  
“Soldier!”  
  
Karpov’s voice rang from the wall speaker. Bucky froze and instantly hated himself for it. He could wreck the whole room. Who was going to stop him? He knew they wouldn’t kill him unless he attacked people they considered truly important. There wasn't even another live person in the room. He was already going to be punished; there was only so much they could do. Hell, he was stronger  _and more skilled at fighting than anyone here. He could take anyone on._  
  
Bucky fell to his knees, chest heaving as his fingers dug into the palms of his hands.  
  
“Clasp your hands behind your back and do not move.”  
  
He bit his lip as he obeyed.  
  
Karpov led the way of a small platoon of armed guards watching him through black tinted headgear. Standing next to him was the man who looked like a pig, a gleeful expression slapped on his face.  
  
“Incredible! And you said its nearly field ready?”  
  
“Mhmm,” grunted Karpov. He walked straight up to Bucky, still on his knees, not daring to look up. Karpov to a cursory glance at the mess of limbs and blood before grabbing Bucky’s increasingly long hair, dragging him towards the door. Beyond the door. Through the corridor while the guards stepped around and followed awkwardly glancing at one another while Turgenov tottered behind.  
  
Karpov took Bucky to his cell and slammed his face down on the cot. it was hard to breathe. The others watched from behind the bars.  
  
“Do you see this, Soldier?”  
“Yes sir.”  
  
“Do you enjoy having a bed?”  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
“Would you like it if I took it away?”  
  
“No! No sir, please-”  
  
“What about these nice clothes on your body?” Karpov gripped the fabric where a large blotch of blood had already started to turn an ugly brown. “Would you like to keep these as well?”  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
“You’ve been very naughty today. And here we were all ready to begin prepping you to finally become  _useful_. To pay us back for all the work we’ve done for you, all the kindness we’ve showed. My men picked you up out of the snow in those godforsaken mountains and saved you from death. Is this how you repay me?”  
  
Bucky’s lip trembled. he could taste the salt from the tears rolling down his cheeks. Everyone was staring at him. Like a caged circus animal.  
  
“No sir. I’m so sor-”  
  
Karpov wretched his head up by the hair and dropped him to the ground. He shoved Bucky’s head down onto the tip of his boot. He made a gesture towards the growing crowd outside the bars.   
  
“Show us all how grateful, how  _apologetic_  you are.”  
  
 _I could get up right now. Snatch a gun. Boom boom boom. A dozen head shots, take the extra ammunition. Walk right out. Steal one of the cars. Find the nearest town. Go home._  
  
Bucky closed his eyes. He swirled his tongue around on the dirt, wiping off even the most minute spec on the (thankfully) mostly clean boot. He arched his back, gripping the thing like it was precious, and lapped around every edge and cranny, not daring to look up or wait for a signal to stop.  
  
“Make sure you do the other one too. And kiss the tip when you’re finished. Show respect. The leather is worth more than all the organs in your body.”  
  
 _There’s no real home left to go to anyway._


	8. Chapter 8

Karpov dropped onto his faded velvet red armchair. Frayed at the seams, scorch marks on the nobby brass legs from Stalingrad (nearly everything in the apartment had burned except the chair, strangely enough). He pulled off his shoes and in the dim light of the table lamp, examined the spit shined surface. He chuckled to himself. Twice now he’d gotten the haughty bitch to bow and kiss his shoes. It could have only possibly been better if it were the Captain himself.  
  
He wondered if the sergeant would ever be truly field ready. If nothing else, today proved the soldier could be controlled to some degree with bribes (and threats), but not trusted to follow orders in general. Should the impulse strike him, the Soldier could take (depending on the size, type of gun) 47 close range shots to non-vital areas of the body in an escape attempt before blood loss stopped him. That would be a lot of casualties that Karpov could get reamed for. Getting supplies out here was difficult enough, let alone qualified personal.   
  
Still, he had an enormous amount of power. This was his project. As long as results were produced, the money would flow, and science would march on.  
  
Maybe the Soldier would never be ready. Maybe he would just end up a guinea pig for Zola to keep testing knock-off serums on. They could get the other subjects to be the assassins. The Soldier could just be a pet.  
  
Maybe he'd retire to one of his family’s estates in Afghanistan. He’d had enough of Russia’s cold. He would drag the soldier out as his personal bodyguard. His live-in slut. What a thought.  
  
Karpov sifted through the files on his desk. He picked the thinnest file.  _Anton Vanko. Defector. Planning to leave for United States on 25 of November, 1959. Level 2 target (low)._  
  
Seemed easy enough. They had over three weeks to prepare. What could go wrong?

* * *

  
  
Steve sat quietly on the rotting log staring ahead, hands folded neatly in his lap while Fallsworth picked out shrapnel from his right shoulder. Bucky was hunched over sitting on bug infested tree stump, glaring at the two of them the best he could since Steve wouldn’t make eye contact. The rest were on the ground, cleaning their weapons or poking at the fire.  
  
Finally, Dernier broke the silence, chatting away with Jones. Something about a “mother wolf growling at it’s pup”. He shot daggers at the two of them giggling away in the darkness. They shut up, but not without flashing giant, stupid grins his way. Dugan and Morita darted their eyes nervously between all three parties.  
  
“It’s alright Barnes. The patient is almost ready for his lecture.”  
  
Steve’s eyes grew wide as he glowered at Fallsworth, who looked right back at him without remorse.   
  
After about ten more minutes, Bucky practically pushed Steve away from the campsite and further into the woods, until the fire was just a pinprick of light in the distance.  
  
Steve sighed. "Alright, lets hear it.”  
  
“Should’ve let me kill that guy Steve. The bastard hit you three times. One of them half an inch from an artery! Fucking serum or not, you’d have bleed out and I would’ve had to stand there and watch it happen while that shitsack coward ran off.”  
  
“Exactly Buck. He was running. There was no point in chasing him.”  
  
“That’s bullshit and you know it. He could’ve been going for reinforcements, or to get more ammunition. Or a grenade. Jesus Steve, I could’ve just popped him off but you _took my goddamn riffle!_ ” Bucky grit his teeth and clenched his fists, gulping down heavy, erratic breaths of air. Steve set his jaw, and Bucky thought he was going to turn to leave.  
  
Instead he took a step forward, placing his hands on Bucky’s heaving shoulder. “Breathe,” he instructed calmly. It was that stupid “captain” voice he used on the others.  
  
“Fuck off,” he snapped, trying to slap Steve’s hands away.  
  
“Buck, I let him go because I had to climb up a goddamn tree to stop  _you_. They were surrendering, but were were still picking them off. You were slaughtering them Bucky! At the very least we needed information, let alone the fact that we shouldn’t be looking for excuses to practice headshots. Most of those guys were just kids in over their heads.”  
  
“They made their choice.” He spat on the ground, not moving his eyes off Steve’s face.  
  
“Did they?”  
  
“You don’t know either way.”  
  
“Neither do you.”  
  
“I know I didn’t get to make mine.” Bucky scratched absently as some marks on his arm. From a guard in the factory he said. He didn’t get hurt very much anymore, or at least healed fast enough that no one else noticed. Steve tried not to think about the implications of that. Steve sighed again, ruffled the hair on the back of his head. Carefully, cautiously, he took Bucky in his arms, muscles tensing as he tried to accommodate his strength and not squeeze too hard.  
  
Bucky’s breathing evened out, and he slowly returned the gesture.  
  
Steve rested his head in the crook of Bucky’s neck, his hands grasping softly at the back of Bucky’s shirt like he’d float away. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. It’s okay.”  
  
He wondered if Steve was saying it more Bucky’s sake or himself.

* * *

  
  
Finally, they made it back to camp, and if anyone in the group suspected their commanding officer and his sergeant had just spent the last half hour in the woods crying and grunting angerly at each other while passionately necking then-- well-- they kept it to themselves. Those neck bruises could have been from anything, technically.  
  
They pitched up their tents, and drew straws for first watch. 

* * *

  
  
“Soldier!”   
  
The voice screeched through the radio. He was on his belly, overlooking a shallow cliff. Below was a cottage, his scope pointed at a spot in the roof that had collapsed and covered hastily in plywood.  
  
Shit, now he remembered. God only know how long he’d blanked out.  
  
 _Complete your first mission, or prepare to start living without a bed again._  
  
It was some low level, mostly unimportant scientist. He’d already been living there since '46, returned to retrieve what was left of his research. More likely than not, he was finally readying himself to never come back.  
  
Bucky looked down at his gun; a slightly modified Mosin–Nagant. Not quite what he would have chosen, but it was more than qualified for the job.   
  
 _You will be richly rewarded, Soldier. You don’t need to fight, to be our enemy forever. You can escape from it whenever you choose. Make this that time._  
  
The man looked scared, panicked even. He must know someone was after him. He didn't strike Buck as particularly stupid.  
  
 _No point in chasing him, Buck._

His finger twitched over the trigger. He could see rustling movements by the window. Bucky couldn’t see the man directly, but the cabin wasn't a big one. It was easy to guess where he was. Boom! Headshot right through that plywood. Maybe a few shots in the back. It shouldn’t be this easy. He didn’t want it to.  
  
The bullet whizzed through the window with a sharp shatter, missing the man’s head by about an inch. Enough to let the guy know just how close they were without hurting him (too bad). Voices cursed over the radio.  
  
As the scientist went sprinting down the road into town, papers flying every which way from his arms, Bucky wondered just how far he could realistically get before they caught up to him. Would civilians get in the way and end up hurt?  
  
He found he didn’t really care, but knew he  _should_. Steve would have. His younger self would. He  _wanted_  to care.  
  
Bucky clutched the rifle in his hands and rolled on his back. There was no snow, but frost clung to the scraggly grass and chilled his neck. The sky was grey, washed out in dull clouds that block most of the sun. For a minute, just before the soldiers grabbed his flesh wrist and snapped the bones in two of his fingers trying to yank his dead weight off the ground, Bucky couldn’t quite remember what the color the sky was suppose to be.

* * *

  
  
They didn’t take his bed. It was a small mercy, at least until he vomited on it out of fearful anticipation of what his real punishment would end up being. They sprayed him and the cot down with a hose, not even bothering to wait for him to undress.  
  
It ended up being warmer to sit naked on bare floor.

* * *

  
  
“Do you know why you are being punished Soldier?”  
  
Bucky had been kneeling for over an hour now. His legs had fallen asleep 40 minutes ago, but he hadn’t dared to even squirm. They would know. They were always watching.  
  
“I failed to complete my mission.”  
  
Zola smiled quizzically.  
  
“Sir.”  
  
Zola paced around Bucky a few times.  
  
“Partly. Though my odds on your completion were 50/50 at best.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“The reason you haven’t been punished yet, is because I don’t know what you’ve done wrong. I need to know the reason why you couldn’t complete the mission. By all accounts, you should have. You cannot leave. We have made you dependent on us, marked you as HYDRA’s property. Disoriented your sense of time and place. Given you rewards, just so we could have something to take away because lets face it, I broke you years ago.”  
  
It wasn't a question, and Bucky didn’t deny it.  
  
“I erased your memories,” he continued. “Go on. Tell me, what is your birth name?”  
  
“Buc-” He stopped himself. That wasn't right. But it hadn’t even worked! He was still himself, he still remembered…  
  
“That’s what I thought. So what is is? Why didn’t you shoot him?”  
  
The memory of himself and Steve and the Commandos- Bucky realized he could see their faces again, bright and vivid. But he couldn’t remember his name. What kind of fucking sense did that make.  
  
Bucky shut his mouth and glared. They could take his damn cot.  
  
"Very well. I am a patient man. I won’t waste a perfectly good chance to let you break yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* I have very little knowledge of Russian history that doesn't relate to Russian Abstractionism or Marxist literary theory


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind I'm under the impression that Bucky has roughly the same metabolism as Steve, and so needs to eat a hella lot more that we do. SO skipping even one day of meals would be be like, missing 2 or 3 or 4 days of food for us. Idk, just keep that in mind while you read.

Bucky was rarely forced to work out anymore. He was usually thrown into cryo often and long enough that there wasn’t much time for atrophy. Though, it wasn't like he was going to question it when he was shoved into the gym and and told to move.  
  
It was only once he noticed his scheduled meals (of which there were six in a 24 hour period and would be split up accordingly for however long he was conscious; three 8 ounce servings of the nutrient drink for snacks, three 14 ounce servings for meals) stopped showing up that he got an inkling of what Zola was going for.

* * *

  
  
Jacking off wasn't something ever explicitly stated to be against the rules (there were actions that warranted punishment, and those that didn’t), yet every instinct was on fire, telling him it was a no-no. But damn it, this is the longest they’d left him “thawed” in a while. He was angry and horny and hungry. He could take care of two out of those three right now. You could only ignore bodily functions for so long before the idea of being lashed with a crop while being chided like a child just didn’t seem too bad.  
  
Even so, Bucky had his back turned to the camera on the west wall, and curled up on himself so it was mostly hidden from the one on the north wall. Hopefully there weren’t anymore. He doubted it. They weren’t exactly trying to hide them anymore.  
  
He wondered if Steve could see him up in the highest parts of Heaven or wherever it was saintly goodie goods like him went after death. He couldn’t remember what their childhood priest ever said on the subject matter. He wasn't sure he even believed anymore. But Steve- Steve was good. He could’ve been perfect, if he weren’t… hadn’t been such a compulsive liar (which he wasn't even good at) and detrimentally rebellious. The little shit.  
  
(Jesus, why didn’t he tell Steve how he felt when he had the chance? He was just ready to let Peggy swoop in and carry him off.  _Stupid!_  Stupid stupid stupid.)  
  
He didn’t want to risk moving his whole arm. He flexed his wrist and thumb, moans hitching in the back of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut. What if they’d kept going that night in the woods? Steve could have held him up against a tree, fucked him senseless while the bark scraped at his back.  
  
Nah. Steve would be gentle. It’d be romantic, if hasty. Steve wouldn’t want to be gone to for too long after all. He’d blush bright enough to see through the dark, undress Bucky and pepper kisses up and down his body. Maybe Steve would give him a blow job. He didn’t know if he’d ever given one. Probably not. He couldn’t remember asking if Steve was still a virgin, either.  
  
He’d be too focused on Bucky to touch himself. Maybe Bucky would have to cup his head in his hands and lift him back to eye level. Remind him sex was a dance for two. They would’ve ended it by rutting against each other, hot and slick even in the cool air of whatever backwater European country they’d been dumped in. He’d grab Steve’s stupid, perfect ass and-  
  
“Soldier!”  
  
He nearly jumped out of his skin. They hadn’t bothered putting night guards on him in a while. Where did they even come from? The cell offered a view of pretty much the entire rest of the room.  
  
He rolled off the cot and kneeled, hands clasped behind his back. It was the position he was expected to take anytime someone entered a room or wanted his attention. More often than not, his knees would slam to the ground for no other reason than to see if he’d remember to do it. Two guards stood looming in front of the bars, theirs shadows drowning out any light from the idle equipment that lit the room at night.  
  
“Keep going,” one of them ordered, a filthy, predatory smirk plastered on his face.  
  
A jolt of fear leapt down his spine. Right hand shaking, Bucky took his cock in hand and started making slow, jerky movements. He heard the camera on the east wall wirring, probably moving to get a better angle.  
  
Bucky tried not to think about the guards, though he could already feel himself flagging. He sped up the pace. Before he was worried about what would happen if they caught him. Now he was ready to piss himself at the prospect of not being able to  _finish_  because Jesus, he knew what these guys liked to do for fun. If he didn’t put on a good show…  
  
He circled his thumb around the slit, teasing the foreskin. It was leaking, just a little, and Bucky slicked up his length with it. He fell into a steady rhythm, desperately trying to pretend he couldn't see the other men get hard in their slacks. He leaned his head back, just enough that he could avert his eyes to the ceiling without making it seem like he was checking out.  
  
Small whines and soft grunts bubbled up before he could suppress them, and couldn’t help but feel himself growing a little hot from embarrassment. His hips jerked up with a grunt into his sticky, pre-come soaked fist.  
  
He threw his head back. Might as well go all the way. He moaned, loud and exaggerated, swaying his whole lower body like he’d seen once in a dirty movie. His left arm hung limp and useless, occasionally scratching at the ground. It wasn't dexterous enough to use in situations like this even he wanted to.   
  
Using Steve to keep it up felt wrong. He tried to imagine a nice lady, with soft skin, bouncing tits, wide hips, sweet smelling perfume. Blue eyes that could dazzle. Blonde hair shone like the sun. Broad shoulders, even before the stupid serum because he was just fucking fine the way he was.  
  
Shit.  
  
He came with a hiss, imagining the Steve he’d left behind in New York in 1943. It splattered to the floor, and Bucky looked away while they burst out laughing.  
  
“Thanks for the show. Maybe we’ll put in a good word so they don't hit you too hard.”  
  
Bucky didn’t move from the ground for a long time.

* * *

  
  
“Hungry, Soldier?”  
  
Six days now since the failed mission, unfrozen and unfed. Bucky swore he could feel his insides nibbling away at his muscles.   
  
Zola smiled. They were in his private suite which, compared to the rest of the compound anyway, was quite fancy. Zola picked up a silver plated fork and slowly,  _slowly_ , picked up a chunk of some sort of potato dish and even more slowly, brought it to his mouth where he made overdrawn sounds of pleasure with every bite.  
  
“Do you remember, Soldier, when you were asked what two plus two was?”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“Tell me what the answer is.”  
  
“Whatever HYDRA desires it to be.”  
  
“Good. Now, do you actually believe that?”  
  
This was a trick question. That wasn't  _fair_. How in God’s name was he suppose to keep up and constantly be guessing at what answer they wanted? Maybe that was the point. To watch him fail. He pursed his lip and said nothing.   
  
God, the food smelled amazing.  
  
“Mhm. That’s what I thought.” He took another bite. “I want you to know Soldier, that despite what you may think, it is not so I have an excuse to punish you. That may be Karpov’s motivation, but I am actually trying to help you. And by helping you, we will help the world.  
  
“So it is imperative that you actually believe what we tell you to. That you take what your superiors say as fact. You should neither be thinking nor anticipating the answers we want. They should be automatic. I foolishly thought this would happen naturally over the course of your therapy. It is evident now I must take a more active approach, yes?”  
  
Zola put down his utensils. There was still quite a bit of food, at least a half a plate worth. He picked it up and waved it in front of Bucky’s nose, smiling as Bucky tracked it with his eyes, lower lip quivering.  
  
“Why did you miss, hm? I know it wasn't by accident. You physical capabilities are beyond human.”  
  
Bucky’s eyes watered. He was so fucking hungry. He could hardly think.  
  
“If you tell me, the rest of this plate is yours. And you will get back to your regular ration schedule before getting to take a break in the cryo tube.”  
  
It’s right there. He could snap Zola’s stupid neck like a twig. Scarf down the food long before anyone knew. He couldn’t give up Steve for this plate of scraps.  _Don't do it. Don't give in._  
  
Zola lifted Bucky’s sinking head up and gave him a disgusting look of mock sympathy. Bucky burst out in ugly wailing. His throat convulsed, his Adam's apple bobbing with each wet sob. Zola swept back Bucky’s hair. It was well past his ears again, tangled and oily and plastered to Bucky’s cheeks with salty tears.  
  
“It’s Steve,” he cried. “I thought of what he would say and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t…”  
  
“Captain Rogers?" asked Zola in geniune shock, "You remember him but not even your own name?”  
  
Bucky nodded furiously.  
  
“Do not worry Soldier. We will make it so he cannot haunt you any longer. He doesn’t deserve your respect. He left you to die in the mountains, remember? After pushing you off the train to save himself?”  
  
No. That wasn't what happened. Bucky tried to think back, but all he could see was Steve clinging to a railing while he fell. Zola was lying. He knew he was.  
  
“I know what you are thinking Soldier. That I am lying. But what do you have to compare what I say against? All you can do is realize you are here, with a new arm to replace the one you lost. You are alive after being pulled from the snow. You know that to be true. I said you could have the rest of this food. This is also true.”  
  
He set the plate on the floor in front of Bucky’s kneeling form. It was still warm.   
  
“You are going to change history soldier. Let me erase what burdens you have left rattling around in your skull. All this anguish will have never happened, and you can move forward.”  
  
Bucky nodded again. Desperately. Anything. Anything that would let him get to the food faster.

  
“So you agree? You want to go back to the chair.”  
  
“Yes. Please, anything.”  
  
Zola nodded towards the food. Bucky moved his hands tentatively towards it. He didn’t even know his knuckles had been smacked until the pain zipped through his body.  
  
“No hands Soldier,” Zola said, smiling.  
  
Bucky whimpered, but put his hands back behind his back and leaned over, scarfing down the food best he could. It took less than a minute. He licked the plate clean. He kept licking until Zola pulled it away from him and set it back on the table.

* * *

  
  
He kept it down for all of five minutes. The best and probably last real food of his life, and it went down the drain in floor of his cell along with the freezing water he was once against sprayed down with. Bucky crawled back into the corner, not even bothering to shed the wet clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peggy/steve/bucky is kinda my MCU ot3??????
> 
> why wont marvel make my dreams come true
> 
> also did you see agent carter like WOW


	10. Chapter 10

He didn’t fight this time.   
  
Zola stood proudly at the head of the room surveying the whole operation. They fit a rubber block in his mouth and snapped his arms and legs in place. The screams came all the same, but there was no thrashing. Just (loud) compliance.

* * *

  
  
“Based on results of the testing, and rather intense interrogation, my team and I have come to the conclusion that the very same treatments that helped reproduce some of the effects of Dr. Erskine’s serum also prevents permanent memory loss. While good for combat, it obviously imposes very serious problems in terms of compliance and mental health on the part of the Winter Soldier. Through-out his service, the Soldier will need regular neural cleaning sessions in the ECT chair. It is also recommended to that in times of prolonged usage, the Soldier be subject to educational films in order to reinforce necessary knowledge and proper ideology.   
  
Over use of ECT takes much longer for the formula to heal. It is recommended that ECT treatments are not used to more than one per every 72 hours active service time. Less than the recommended time cushion between wipes increases obedience but decreases critical thinking and emotional stability.”  
  
Zola glanced up. At least a third of the room looked ready to fall asleep, and rest either eagerly taking notes or whispering amongst themselves, nodding in approval. Only Karpov stood out, with his arms folded and legs stretched out as he stared hard at the wall in front of him.  
  
They were animals. Unappreciative animals.   
  
“Question,” someone piped up. He was a burly man in a starch pressed uniform and well trimmed facial hair. Clearly one of the KGB officials, especially since just a minute before he’d been yawning. “Will these results be reproducible in other subjects? Because one brain damaged idiot with a gun isn’t going to cut it, doctor.”  
  
Zola narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Once the Soldier has completed his first mission, we will be able to compile the data and perfect the entire process. We have eager, loyal service men ready to volunteer themselves.”  
  
He got up and scratched his beard, slowly sauntering to the front of the room. Zola’s assistants took three steps back, leaving him standing there alone and not at all nervously clutching his clipboard full of notes.  
  
“I would just like to know,” he said just barely loud enough for the room to hear, “just who it is these soldiers and indeed what is  _left_  of Mr. Barnes, are loyal to? Is it our union, like it should be? Or is it your defunct zealot cult?   
  
But more importantly, I want to know why the sergeant was allowed to stay in your custody,” he said briskly, turning on his heels, " _Karpov_  for your stupid project? He could have been a valuable bargaining chip for critical foreign intelligence? Who in god’s name has continued to authorize this for the past 15 years!”  
  
“I have, Bukharin,” Karpov drolled, not bothering to take the cigar from his mouth. “Turgenov, too. Are you questioning my loyalty? I was entrusted with cleaning up the American’s trash. I got to keep what I found. Clearly no one but you has had any issue so far.”  
  
“I’ve read the reports. This department has done nothing but waste time, money, and manpower. You might embellish your achievements on paper, but I’ve seen enough. The Red Room will be shut down.”  
  
A ring of grey smoke drifted in the direction of Bukahrin’s face, who didn’t so much as blink as squint in the most violently angry way someone could without physically attacking them. “Okay. Go ahead. Go off and convince our great leaders some giant robotic armor would be a much better use of their resources. Especially without Vanko and his designs around anymore. ‘s a shame how he managed to escape to America.”  
  
“You…” Bukahrin sputtered. “You…!”  
  
“It was low priority, thought I could use it to give the soldier some target practice. Not my fault he missed.”  
  
“It could have gone to someone who could’ve  _gotten the job done_. And now he’s in the wind with the designs I needed.”   
  
Zola also ended up taking a few steps back. Bukahrin was absolutely livid. Spitting mad. He kicked over chair, flipped a small side table and stormed out of the room.

* * *

  
  
The Soldier watched the films with a quiet intensity. He refused, sometimes violently, to let anyone turn them off, claiming it staved off headaches. In reality, Karpov figured it was just to distract him from the lingering wisps of memories that still lingered on the edge of his mind. It probably hurt more to remember you’d forgotten something than it did to feel utterly blank.  
  
Karpov wished he could keep him like this forever. Confused and scared and deadly as anything.

“Soldier!”  
  
He jumped up immediately, on his knees and hands clasped behind his back. His head was bowed, long hair covering his face like a curtain. He really needed a haircut, but it grew so fast it almost wasn't worth it. Just two days ago they’d shaved it all off as pretty silent tears streamed down the Soldier’s face.  
  
(He didn’t know why he was crying. He rarely did these days.)  
  
“We have a mission for you.”  
  
Nothing. Not even the sounds of breathing.  
  
“And this time you will complete it. If you don’t well- you know.”  
  
The Soldier looked up at that. No, he didn’t know. That was the beauty of it. And not because they wiped the punishments either. They’d given the task of punishment to some of the new men who’d come in. Creativity and unpredictability proved to be a good combination.  
  
“I-”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I don’t want to kill,” he stammered.  
  
“Oh,” Karpov grinned, “You’ll want to.”

* * *

  
  
 _Did you know that you target- it’s entirely his fault you’ve been stuck with us. With Hydra. He was going to trade you for prisoners or information back in the states. You could be home now. You could remember your own name but_  him,  _he just decided you weren’t worth enough._  
  
Bucky tailed the man. Bukahrin. He’d never been to the city by somehow he seemed to know every street, every turn and building. He never seriously considered escaping anymore, but it was nice to imagine sometimes.  
  
 _Make it look like a mugging. Impersonal. But confirm death without doubt._  
  
Bucky felt like he really ought to be angry at his handlers and doctors and techs and what have you. But the idea of hurting them made his stomach turn. But hurting Bukahrin… he could feel the ecstasy flowing to each fingertip. He gripped the stiletto as Bukahrin turned a corner.  
  
He didn’t even have time to say anything. Bucky stabbed him in the gut, just under his belly to ensure a good amount of blood spilled, but just clumsy enough looking be have plausibly been done by an amature criminal.   
  
For good measure, he slashed the throat too and within seconds, he fell to the ground twitching and gasping.  
  
Bucky wanted to stay and watch his handiwork. With any luck, he’d be caught by the police, and he could escape Hydra without  _escaping_  Hydra. How much worse could prison or a labor camp be?  
  
In the end, the whole thing took less than a minute, and Bucky blended back in with a crowd of people walking by on the main street.


	11. Chapter 11

It was December 15, 1991. Or so the Soldier had been told.   
  
If it was true, then they’d only bothered freezing him for about one and a half, maybe two weeks. Either there was some last minute emergency, or they were lying to him. It didn’t matter, he had to remind himself. It wasn't his place to question it.  
  
The Soldier looked up at buildings and felt a faint nostalgic tug, before suddenly realizing his handlers hadn’t actually even told him where he  _was_ \- they simply handed him the file and pushed him out of the van with his equipment. He froze in the middle of the street, causing a woman fiddling around with her PDA to slam into him and spew a handful of obscenities.  
  
 _Nice to see nothing’s changed..._  
  
His stomach sank like a stone, and he shook his head violently. He hated these moments. They hurt enough on their own, but if if they got bad enough that the thoughts started impeding the mission he would have to tell someone, and that usually landed him in the chair. The Soldier knew it was to help, no matter how much it felt like a punishment, but he hated it. Maybe the only thing in the whole world that he hated. He forced himself to move again, ignoring the stares of the other people on the street passing him by.

* * *

  
  
A more or less well kept three story brownstone, the safehouse was probably one of the bigger ones he’d been in, though he would hardly be spending much time using it. He zipped open the bag and spilled the contents on the floor.  
  
A Dragunov, several packs of bullets, a wad of approximately $200, an indistinguishable Luger model, first aid kit, two shiny new Fairbairn–Sykes, and an ELT. He tossed the last one aside and holstered the smaller weapons on his person. The rest was shoved back in the bag.  
  
The mission objective, instead of neatly typed the standard bureaucratic manner, was scrawled in English on piece of wide-ruled notebook paper.   
  
 _Stark, Howard. Stark, Maria. Kill as soon as possible. Make it look like and accident. Return to rendezvous point and contact control upon completion.Level 10 priority_.  
  
There was nothing else in terms of orders. No specifics or clarification, just a couple of photographs. There had been rush jobs before, not quite like this. Just last month, before being thrown back into cryo, he’d been told he was being assigned to be General Karpov’s personal bodyguard, and that he’d be waking up in Afghanistan. A sense of relief washed over him when he remembered that. Maybe the old man had died.   
  
The Soldier didn’t hate many things, but he thought maybe Vasily Karpov might be one of the things he did.

* * *

  
  
Finding them was easy. No one had to be bribed or threatened either. The only contact the Soldier even needed with a single other human being was for the pocket changed he shelled out for a newspaper-- the front cover of which had the targets faces plastered in a large black and white photo, leaving ink smudges on his right hand. They were on Long Island, attending a charity benefit.  
  
Getting the car to crash and look like an accident was harder.  
  
It seemed the only logical way to do it. The targets were high profile, in the city on business and would likely be surrounded by many people. Civilian casualties only lead to more problems to the Soldier’s superiors, and were to be avoided. The car was the only place they would be relatively alone. Cutting the brakes would be easiest, but the Starks (or at least one of them) were a paranoid couple, with five different car waiting to whisk them off to their hotel. He would simply have to wait. It was nearly two in the morning by the time they finally left.  
  
A single, well timed shot took out both front tires, sending it spinning into a cluster of trees on the side of the road. He hopped down from his vantage point. The front was totaled, the tires torn to shreds. Driver killed instantly. He checked the pulse of the woman. Nothing. He snapped her neck, just to be safe. The man, Howard, was halfway out the door, blood seeping from some unknown location on his body, wheezing and grunting with every breath. He turned him over, and the man’s eyes went wide. Panicked.  
  
“Barnes?”  
  
The Soldier shifted his eyes, scanning to look for someone behind him.  
  
“Barnes, you’re alive. Oh my god,” he gasped, clutching at the Soldier’s shirt and eying the Soviet Star, the Hydra logo long since painted over. “They’ve had you. This whole time, haven’t they.”  
  
He should end the suffering. The grip on his clothing weakens as the man’s eyes droop.  
  
“I knew they were working with them… could never prove it… never prove… any of it… Bucky, Steve th-”  
  
Stark’s eyes glossed over as his body slid from the car floor entirely, blood oozing in a steady drip off the ragged metal. The Soldier stood in silent horror.  
  
 _Not Jimmy. James **Buchanan**  Barnes. It’s why they call me Bucky._  
  
The duffel bag was left sitting in the tree next to the scope still focused on the crash.

* * *

  
  
He found himself curled up on a rickety metal framed bed in a Brooklyn men’s shelter.  
  
A bright eyed, middle aged woman with a plump but solid body at the front desk said she was “happy to see him lucid” after over a week of hardly speaking or moving. She handed him a small red stocking full of toiletries and asked if he would be staying for Christmas.  
  
“Is there family we can call?”  
  
He shook his head. The scientists had always referred to him as a “creation” or a “project”. People certainly had family. The Soldier knew this because sometimes he was used for stress relief when his handlers were forced to spend time away from their wives to take care of him. An asset like him was very high maintenance after all. Though most of the time, he would hear it from the terrified, trembling mouths as they pleaded  _please, I have a family!_ People were not creations, so the Soldier doubted he had one.  
  
Except for Steve, maybe. Whoever that was.  
  
The name sent chills up the Soldier’s spine, but at the same time felt like something he desperately wanted to remember. He cursed Stark for damning him with his dying breath like this. Because now he was  _thinking_ , and every thought only led to the same conclusion.  
  
 _I don’t want to go back_.

* * *

  
  
A full ten days after the crash, they dragged him kicking and screaming from the shelter. The other residents, the lady at the desk-- he didn’t know if they were more scared of him, or the guns point everywhere and nowhere in particular.

* * *

  
  
“Why did you run, Soldier?”  
  
The light was blinding, and the occasional doctor leaning over to check his vitals glowed with a haze of white around their heads. The straps holding him flat on his back cut into his skin. They left his left arm on, but only so they could more easily anchor him down. The water cut into his skin like knife, whereas the ice  _in_  the water pelted his face like frozen bullets. The Soldier gasped for air, water spilling over the corners of his mouth.  
  
“Why did you not report to the rendezvous point?”  
  
He struggled to gargle out an answer. “I don’t know! God, I don’t know! I don’t remember!” Hot streaks flowed from his eyes, warming his cheeks slightly before a stinging slap distracted from the cold.  
  
“Useless trash…” one of them said under his breath.  
  
“How should we proceed from here sir?”  
  
Karpov leaned over the Soldier, shaking his head.  
  
“I’m too old for this. It needs to end. Fry as much as you can without losing any combat or language or you know, vital stuff. Like breathing.”  
  
“Everything?”  
  
“Everything. I don’t care if he recognizes me anymore. As long as he obeys.”  
  
“Sir, Dr. Zola warned-”  
  
“Zola is nothing more than an immobile hunk of hardware! I don’t want a scrap of personality left in that  _thing_ , do you understand me? I’ve had to put my retirement on hold an extra month because of this nonsense. I’m 85 fucking years old, dammit. Get. it. Done.”  
  
He want to fight it. God he does. But the muscle relaxers are doing their job, and when the electrodes touch his temple and get flicked on, he thinks maybe it’s for the best. Maybe there will be no more headaches. No fear, no confusion. His head falls back, and he doesn’t even hear himself scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place right after [You're Pulling the Trigger All Wrong](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1918554). Just in case u wanted to know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> The epilogue is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3146723)


End file.
